


The Texan's Moniker

by 100dabbo



Series: Quincey and Seward - Headcanons and Ficlets [5]
Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Kissing, M/M, Married Couple (Sort Of), Middle Names, Slang, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22318123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100dabbo/pseuds/100dabbo
Summary: Ficlet: An evening with Quincey in the drawing rooms leads to Seward asking the question he's always wanted to know - What does the P stand for?
Relationships: Quincey Morris/John Seward
Series: Quincey and Seward - Headcanons and Ficlets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578952
Kudos: 15





	The Texan's Moniker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cattycat1310](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattycat1310/gifts).



**Dr Seward’s Diary**

The drawing rooms. My favourite place to be with Quincey; undoubtedly the best atmosphere within to relax with its warm fire, yielding lounges and rustic furniture – not to mention the exquisite decanter… The two of us could stay there for hours upon end, and in fact, we regularly do.

Yesterday evening, we sat on the sofas beside one another; myself with a glass of red in my hand, itching to reach for the chess board, and him nursing a finger of bourbon whiskey, his hand on my leg a preventing factor that stopped me from standing up to retrieve it.

I looked at him and sighed, smirking behind my glass as I brought it to my lips, taking a generous sip, remaining quiet. His lids were narrowed as he watched me, fingers digging in harder and harder into my thigh before he broke the silence with two words:-

“Doctor Seward.”

It wasn’t a question or a call for my attention because he knew all of my interest and consideration was already directed his way. I still, however, raised my eyebrows and cocked my head to the side, expecting him to say more. And he did, continuing by repeating his last phrase, “Doctor,” He paused and took a sip of his whiskey, “Seward.” I put my tongue in my cheek, refusing him of the smile he was so desperately craving from me and asked him:-

“Is my professional name of personal interest to you, Quincey?”

His lips remained adorned with that playful smirk and he took his hand away from my leg to rest it behind his head, reclining back and spreading his legs out. He repeated, once more, my title,

“Doctor,” He swayed his head to the side and ran his tongue across his lips, “John Seward.”

My eyes opened wide and I stifled a giggle, instead jerking myself up to give him a harsh press into his leg with my thumb and say in the sternest tone possible when borderline drunk:-

“Don’t call me John,” I slurred, “Only the Professor calls me John…”

He held his hands up, a guilty culprit admitting to his crimes, and he shook his head to admit defeat. The silence returned to us, only the crackling fire to stave us from absolute quiet, until he opened his mouth again:-

“Doctor. John. Seward.” He repeated, earning a choked laugh out of me which I promptly covered with my hand. I composed myself to the best of my efforts and leaned over the smirking man, his eyes clouded with a combination of amusement and lust. Would I be a betting man, I’d put money on him being hard, or at least half hard in that moment. But with my thoughts solely focused on getting revenge on Quincey’s humorous comments, I couldn’t say. I slapped a hand of mine on his shoulder firmly and grasped it, shaking it slightly as I giggled:-

“Quincey. P. Morris.”

“Doctor. _John_. Seward.”

I knew goading him further would be fruitless, and I reclined back on my side of the lounge, him following me with a lean closer into me, our legs a drunken tangle of limbs at that point. He slid his tongue between his teeth as he smiled, like he always would, and gazed mindlessly into my blue eyes. I was going to let him win this one, move on to the next conversation, when I suddenly realised something.

“P. Morris?”

He laughed and nodded, mistaking it for a question of identity rather that what the ‘P’ stood for. I chuckled and took another sip of the wine, asking him as nonchalantly as I could, “What is the ‘P’ for, Quincey?”

His face suddenly flushed, and his eyes shot wide. He downed his whiskey without another word and poured himself another. I let my eyes follow each movement he took; replacing the stopper on the bottle, settling back onto the sofa, then whacking the pillows with unnecessary force to re-fluff them. His lip twitched as I refused to look away.

“Quincey P. Morris?” I reiterated, this time it _was_ a request for him to reply to, which he did after a few seconds, though not without his persistent joking:-

“Yes, John?”

I sucked my teeth and continued my thought:-

“If I can guess your middle name, you have to tell me it. Does that sound fair?”

He deliberated for a moment, his eyes turning brighter, giving me the hope of a ‘yes’, then he deadpanned to me:-

“No.”

I laughed and threw my head back on the armrest of the chaise lounge, kicking my legs at him to encourage his acceptance of my proposal. He was unwavering and stoic, however, simply tapping his golden ring against the side of his glass. I persisted anyway and leaned closer to him:-

“Peter?”

He raised one of his brows, almost in offence. A name so common couldn’t fit a man like him, no, it needed to be more exotic than that, and so I guessed again:-

“Pablo?”

At this he laughed, and took another sip of his whiskey, murmuring:-

“Quit hollerin’ down the wind, Jack, I ain’t gon’ tell you.”

I ran my tongue across my lips, determined to find the answer before the end on the night, desperately hissing out:-

“Pierre?!”

“Pierre is French for Peter! You don’t know a widget from a whangdoodle!” He laughed took another sip of the drink, swallowing it with a purposefully loud gulp. His constant Texan gibberish still made me smile, however, and so with my body inching closer to his, I replied with fluttering lids,

“Ah, je peux voir…” And I swilled the wine in my glass as his brow furrowed in deep confusion.

“Huh?”

I laughed quietly to myself, taking a sip of the fine vintage. My aim was to get him relaxed; relaxed enough to spill this little secret that I hadn’t even realised was such a touchy subject with him. Either that, or he was just toying with me for his own amusement.

“You see, Quincey,” I said, attempting to search for clues, “I’m not as knowledgeable on American names as I ought to be.”

“Who said it was an American name?” He countered, his smile showing his exquisite facial structure; utterly handsome to no end.

“Apologies, only I assumed that it would be…” I finished my glass and snapped my eyes back on him, “Or is that what you want me to think?!”

“One more guess, Jack…” So, he had conceded to my game, finally, though this one last estimate was the crucial, final one! Foolishly, I called him on a bluff:-

“Parker?!”

He said nothing and just tapped the ring against the glass, shaking his head, a secret smirk stretching the lips below that moustache. I had failed and, in my defeat, let my head fall back onto the arm rest. My eyes closed and I stretched out my limbs over the lounge, sighing to myself. Then, silently, his body slinked over mine, and when my eyes opened, he was looming right over me, leaning between my legs,

“You know, Jack,” His deep-toned voice said, “I’m almost offended you couldn’t guess it…”

“Then tell me…” I implored with a whisper, biting my lip wantonly and letting my lids turn heavy. He chuckled and dipped his head down, and I thought, then, he was going to kiss me and put it at rest, but to my surprise, his mouth surpassed mine and he hovered right by my ear,

“Percival.” He told me, immediately getting off of me the moment he said it to refill his glass and hide that rose flush of his cheeks. Never before had I seen this man so embarrassed, and at nothing at all! I gasped as his body heat left me and regained my composure and position on the lounge, a smug smile surely on my lips,

“ _Percival_ …” I echoed; never had a name rolled off my tongue so wonderfully. He snapped his head up and continued to tease me:-

“ _John_.” He flopped himself back down beside me, enough whiskey in that glass to get him ‘calling for earl’ in no time at all. Though, I suspected that was the reason for pouring it. My hand rested back on his thigh and I grinned, cheeks sore from all the smiling and laughing I had already been doing, and I leaned into him once more, 

“I love you, Quincey.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” He finally turned back to me, replacing his sulking scowl for a tender smirk, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on my lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
